


how can you sleep with my heart so loud?

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop, Snow, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-05
Updated: 2007-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a bad patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how can you sleep with my heart so loud?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazy_daze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Как можно спать, когда мое сердце так громко бьется рядом?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/969280) by [Rassda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassda/pseuds/Rassda)



> For Sam, for the prompt 'being ill'. No spoilers. Title from Piano Magic - The Unwritten Law.

 

He's a bad patient, too silent, too still.

Sam likes him complaining.

Snow outside, and it eats up sound. Soft fat flakes that only melt on the salt trails. They hold the light, impossible to tell the time of day when it's always gray-white light.

Inside, no sound to be heard besides Sam's socked feet padding around and Dean's rasping breath. Sometimes the turn of a page.

There are cries in the night, foxes. They sound like they're dying, but then fucking feels like that sometimes too, fitting it should sound like it. In the morning, there are tracks in the snow, dancing footsteps. There are bird prints too, fragile and aimless. The falling snow soon fills them in, and when the wind rises in the evening, snow drops off the skinny branches of the young cottonwood outside the back door.

There's nothing to do except read and watch. Sam pretends to read, but mostly he watches, even when there's nothing to see but unwashed hair poking out one end of their pile of sleeping bags.

There are rats under the floorboards, and they scuttle around, sharp claws click-clack. But only at night. Sam tells Dean they'll have to catch and cook them if they have to stay here much longer. Dean manages to raise a finger – he's getting better. Tomorrow Sam will ask if he wants them barbequed or stewed.

Dean lets Sam hold him at night, edge of the mattress, Sam's ass hanging off the side because Dean's claimed the middle, but there's no distance to fall. Dean breathes steadier, quieter, when Sam puts his arms around him, hands pressed to his chest, flat against it. And Sam's heart beats easier when it has Dean's close to match rhythm. He sleeps and wakes when Dean does, two hour cycles in the night for water or pills.

Fourth day, and the snow's built up on the window ledges, too much for the salt to melt. Sam hasn't bothered to clear a track outside, not for the last two days – he's not going anywhere. It's stopped snowing though, an anemic afternoon light replacing the snow storm.

Fifth day, and Dean starts demanding.

Beer and burgers – he wants a double cheeseburger with pickles and fries. And a bed bath. Sam gives him tinned soup and tea, and Dean glares but drinks them. He stays awake afterwards, and complains his skin is itching, so Sam throws him a damp rag and tells him to give himself a bed bath. The rag lands on Sam's book when Dean throws it back – bad shot, he was probably aiming for Sam's face.

Sam puts another mattress down that night. Reckons Dean will want the space now. He hasn't fallen asleep when Dean dumps his sleeping bag on top of him and shoves him over. "S'cold," he says, and coughs. He's faking it this time, but Sam still lets him put his cold feet under Sam's legs.

Sixth day, and they fuck quietly, and they're fine.

 


End file.
